LIBRARY 


of 

CAUPOKNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


POEMS 


"202.0O 


The  POEMS  of 

PAUL  MARIETT 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXIII 


COPYRIGHT  1913  HV  MITCHELL  K.ENNERLEY 


PRESS  OF  J.  J.  LITTLE  *  WES  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the 
poem  in  this  volume  entitled  "The 
Grateful  Dead  "  thanks  are  due  to 
the  editor  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


PAUL  MARIETT 
October  24,  1888 — March  14,  1912 

TN  the  Spring  of  1910,  six  of  us,  with  one  ex- 
ception  undergraduates  in  Harvard  Col 
lege,  used  to  eat  dinner  together  about  as  often 
as  we  could  induce  an  unwilling  secretary  to 
send  out  postcards  and  collect  the  group.  We 
had  begun  with  no  small  amount  of  self-con 
sciousness  by  regarding  each  other  as  types;  a 
claim  to  membership  was  as  poet,  dramatist, 
musician,  scientist,  romantic,  reformer.  After 
dinner  we  would  gather  about  a  fire  and  start  a 
discussion.  Inevitably  the  topic  of  the  evening 
seemed  to  involve  all  human  interests,  so  that 
arguments  about  religion  would  end  in  a  quar 
rel  over  Chesterton's  sanity  and  considerable 
heartsearching  as  to  whether  soap  and  social 
ism  were  really  middle-class  fads.  Those  eve 
nings  are  memorable  in  many  ways,  but  chiefly 
for  what  they  gave  us  of  Paul  Mariett. 

Not  long  after,  the  cancer  of  which  he  died 
took  hold  of  him.    That  Spring  he  overflowed 


ii  Paul  Mariett 


with  life :  feeling  his  own  power,  he  was  full 
of  plans,  and  the  grim  silence  which  he  had 
formerly  maintained  began  to  break  into  color 
ful  confidence.  His  appetite,  for  everything, 
was  enormous.  Almost  for  the  first  time  we 
began  to  see  that  the  real  Paul  was  a  fellow  of 
turbulent  interests  and  subtle  perceptions,  who 
had  carefully  protected  himself  by  a  brusque 
and  unsociable  manner.  Beneath  the  austerity 
was  a  brilliant,  livid,  and  audacious  love  of  liv 
ing.  He  was  shy  about  his  delicacies  and  bash 
ful  about  his  virtues;  his  vices  he  loved  to 
parade.  Paul  rather  enjoyed  the  reputation  of 
being  something  of  a  man-eater.  Of  all  things 
he  did  not  want,  the  prettifying  touch  is,  I  be 
lieve,  the  one  he  despised  most.  He  himself 
was  brutally  direct;  he  liked  others  to  be  so, 
too.  For  all  the  conventional  attitudinizing  of 
the  poet  over  sweetness  and  light  he  had  a 
bitter  scorn;  he  could  hate  with  zest;  he  be 
lieved  that  hate  was  a  good  robust  virtue.  To 
all  kinds  of  softness  Paul  was  a  hard  bed  in 
deed,  and  to  muffled  personalities  and  finicky 
souls  he  was  a  cleansing  gale. 

You  had  to  brace  your  feet  to  meet  him — 
there  was  no  chance  to  shirk  behind  a  graceful 
pose,  or  a  cultivated  one,  or  any  other  kind  of 


Paul  Mariett  Hi 


barrier  between  yourself  and  him.  That  was 
his  genius:  people  became  closer  knit  and  more 
self-contained  when  he  was  around.  You  could 
not  coddle  your  difficulties  in  him,  for  he  made 
you  ashamed  of  your  slackness. 

Paul  enjoyed  life.  He  had,  it  seemed,  no 
listless  pleasures.  When  he  ate  it  was  with 
tremendous  relish;  a  book  was  something  to  be 
attacked  and  beaten  till  he  had  subordinated  it; 
swimming  and  snowshoeing  he  loved  partly  for 
the  strain  and  rack  of  them.  He  had  us  all 
intimidated  by  his  interest  in  boxing.  Lan 
guages  Paul  seemed  to  learn  with  no  trouble  at 
all.  For  a  time  he  carried  a  Portuguese  trans 
lation  of  the  Gospels  in  his  pocket  in  order  to 
teach  himself  Portuguese.  The  classics  he 
knew, — they  were  a  natural  background  to  a 
really  vast  culture  which  he  absorbed  silently. 
With  his  music,  and  his  languages  and  litera 
tures,  he  was  a  peculiarly  learned  undergrad 
uate.  Yet  he  hated  pedantry  so  vigorously,  and 
showed  so  terse  and  unacademic  a  manner,  that 
not  even  his  closest  friends  were  entirely  aware 
of  the  very  solid  foundations  of  Paul's  literary 
interests. 

This  learning  did  not  dull  his  appetite  for 
existence,  and  that  is  what  distinguishes  him 


iv  Paul  Mariett 


from  most  undergraduate  poets.  They  like  life 
nicely  selected,  and  their  passions  are  carefully 
strained  through  a  literary  tradition.  No  doubt 
they  often  sing  melodiously  and  show  surpris 
ing  competence  in  verse.  But  their  passions  are 
Swinburne's  or  Shelley's;  somebody  else  has 
sweated  for  them.  Paul  Mariett  was  too  gen 
uine  a  lover  of  life  to  accept  some  one  else's 
version  of  it.  He  struggled  violently,  some 
times  aimlessly,  against  the  ordinary  technique 
of  passion,  like  a  man  caught  in  a  snarl  of  rope. 
Now  and  again  he  would  half  free  himself:  I 
think  some  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  prove 
that.  But  the  struggle  was  only  at  its  begin 
ning  when  he  was  felled  by  the  disease  which 
finally  killed  him.  It  is  our  faith  that  with  time 
he  would  have  won. 

The  tragic  feeling  which  runs  through  so 
much  of  his  work  is,  I  am  sure,  not  entirely 
ordinary  undergraduate  pessimism.  It  is  a  gen 
uinely  tragic  feeling,  a  gift  of  nature's  rather 
than  a  handicap.  Nietzsche  speaks  of  the  pes 
simism  of  strength  and  describes  it  as  "an  in 
tellectual  predilection  for  what  is  hard,  awful, 
evil,  problematical  in  existence,  owing  to  well- 
being,  to  exuberant  health,  to  fullness  of  exist 
ence."  In  Paul  Mariett,  the  tragic  is  always 


Paul  Mariett 


active,  sharp  and  colored;  it  was  not  so  much  a 
regret  over  life  as  an  insight  into  it. 

This  little  volume  is  a  loose  scattering  from 
his  verse.  He  wrote  much  prose  and  some 
plays  besides.  Two  of  his  stories  were  pub 
lished  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly ;  other  stories 
and  some  essays  were  printed  in  various  under 
graduate  magazines  at  Harvard.  A  play  of 
his  was  performed  by  the  Harvard  Dramatic 
Club.  All  of  the  man  is  not  in  this  work, — the 
expression  he  was  seeking  does  not  come  easily, 
and  no  one  knew  better  than  he  that  he  had 
achieved  it  only  now  and  then. 

His  illness  lasted  two  years.  After  a  while 
no  opiate  dulled  the  agony  he  suffered  night  and 
day.  It  was  an  inexplicable  affliction, — one  of 
those  terrors  in  existence  for  which  philosophies 
and  religions  have  not  yet  accounted.  Paul 
Mariett  had  only  his  sheer  human  valor  to  op 
pose  to  it.  He  stood  his  fate;  racked  in  body, 
his  soul  was  never  sick. 

WALTER  LIPPMANN 


POEMS 


THE    MASTER    WOULD    IMPROVISE 

T  SAT  at  my  instrument  and  began  to  build. 
•*•       I  built  me  a  palace: 
I  built  me  an  edifice  of  molten  notes. 
I  took  the  keys  and  cunningly  interwove 
My  fingers  in  a  gleam  of  black  and  white: 
The  sound  rose  like  a  mist  between  my  hands 
Flashing, 
Halting, 
Hovering, 
Pouncing, — 
And  forth, 
Lo! 

My  palace. 

And  first  I  laid  a  firm  foundation, 
A  solemn,  granite,  ponderable  bass, 
Deep, 
Very  deep ; 

Notes,  Notes,  Notes.     Each  a  weight  upon 
the  heart, 

i 


Poems 

(Such  weights  make  firm  foundations.) 

Then 

I  fashioned  the  framework. 

Trembling  trellises 

Climbed  to  the  highest  wreaths  of  tinted 
clouds, 

Fragile, 

Dainty, 

Evanescent,  spiring,  flashing  white  and  arch 
ing, 

Curving  to  meet  in  delicate,  tinkling  sound, 

Like  frozen  aspirations 

Halted  on  a  heavenward  journey: 

A  sound  the  wafered,  silver  ice  on  shallow 
pools 

Gives  when  it  shivers  to  unheeded  gems. 

And  these  were  strewed  with  notes  of  blue, 

Sheathed,  lapped,  embraced  with  notes  of 
blue, 

Yes;  turquoise  blue,  and  cuprous  blue,  and 
livid,  living  green, 

Shading  and  sliding  indistinguishably 

To  grey  and  muffling  black 

At  the* foundation; 

But,  as  they  neared  the  summit, 

Growing  translucent — like  green  amber. 

Then,  at  the  top, 


Paul  Mariett 


My  fretted  arches 

Would  lean  together, 

Would  be  wedded 

Beam  unto  beam,  diligent  to  create  a  roof; 

Suddenly 

They  began  to  redden, 

To  turn  rosy, 

(And  all  the  while  my  fingers  interlaced 

Swifter  and  yet  more  swift) 

Then  to  grow  golden; 

(My  hands  a  ghostly  mist) 

Pale,  lambent  fires 

Played  about  them, 

In, 

Out, 

Around, 

A  dazzling  dance; 

Soft  tongues, 

Beautiful, 

Wonderful. 

Ah!    ... 

Ah! 

Ah!  ! 

How   shall   my   eyes   endure   to   m-ake   the 

roof? 
Such  light! 
Such  light! 


Poems 

I  sat  at  my  instrument. 

My  hands,  lax,  unstrung, 

Held  to  the  crushing  disillusionment — 

The  black  cacophony.    .    .    . 

My  head  was  bowed. 

I  wept. 


Paul  Mariett 


THE   TEMPLE   OF  AZZI-REP 

THE  gilded  idol  is  broken  now 
That  faced  to  the  east  to  see  the  sun; 
The  temple  rafters  warp  and  bow 
At  the  weight  of  ages  thrust  thereon; 
And,  ah!    the  sadness, 
The  shadowing  sadness, 
The  strange,  cold  sadness  for  life  undone  I 

Red  lizards  run  on  the  battered  step, 
Branches  tangle  the  columns  and  shards; 
Broken  the  power  of  Azzi-Rep, 
Forgotten  his  worship,  his  name,  his  words — 
But,  O!   the  sadness, 
The  strange  cold  sadness, 
The   enveloping   sadness  that   shrouds   and 
guards ! 

One  God  persists  for  ever  and  aye, 

And  small  gods  shrivel  and  fail  in  that  Sun; 

But  still,  in  the  moonlight,  the  old  gods  lay 

Mystic  spells  on  the  heart  and  the  tongue — 

And,  ah!   their  sadness, 

Their  potent  sadness, 

A  terrible  sadness  that  never  is  done! 


Poems 


TWO    FEASTS 

/  I  VHE  feast  was  at  its  height.    The  courtiers 

reeled 

In  drunken  waves  along  the  pillared  hall; 
The  table  bore  the  brunt  of  scattered  foods, 
And  garlands  petal-pillaged  by  the  rout, — 
Where,  here  and  there,  a  woman  crowned  with 

wreaths 

Made  rosy  showers  of  her  lover's  favors, — 
And  dishes  overturned,  and  viands  fouled, 
Half-cleft  pomegranates  gaping  like  a  wound, 
And  dusky  grapes  too  lavish  of  their  juice, 
And  honeyed  dates  like  ingots  of  fine  gold, 
And     curious     breads,     and     dainty,     broken 

sweets — 

All  swept  together  in  a  riot  of  waste, 
Wherein    the    inebriate    wallowed,    sang,    and 

kissed: 

Only  the  goblets  held  their  contents  firm. 
The  walls  and  ceilings  pulsed  and  spilled  the 

sound; 

The  pillars  through  the  reek  of  perfumed  haze 
Made  oscillations  at  each  drunken  crash. 
Only,  above,  beside  a  space  of  wall, 


Paul  Marie tt 


Quite  smooth,  save  for  some  pictured,  antique 

men, 

Walking  in  stilted  way  along  a  dado, 
There  loomed  a  clumsy,  carven,  winged  sphinx, 
His    features,   gross    and  bland,   endued  with 

calm: 
A  beast  himself,  he  contemplated  beasts. 

Beneath,  high  seated  on  an  ivory  throne, 
Belshazzar  sate,  and,  with  his  hundred  queens, 
Drank  deeply,  brushing  with  a  crisp  black  beard 
A  greedy  goblet  which  the  eunuchs  filled. 
There  rose  a  courtier  in  the  lower  hall; 
And  standing  on  the  flower-strewn  tessellations, 
He  cried  aloud,  addressing  the  great  king: 

"O  King!    O  Conqueror!    O  Mighty  Lord! 
O  Lord  of  adamantine  Babylon, 
Of  Babylon  which  lives  for  aye  and  aye, 
Of  Babylon  the  indestructible — 
Bring  us  the  golden  vessels  of  the  god, 
The  god  that  dwelt  in  Israel,  but  now, 
Supine  beneath  the  feet  of  iron  Baal, 
Lies  vanquished,  and  whom  the  gracious  Queen, 
Our  Lady  Ashtaroth,  has  put  to  scorn — 
Bring  us  the  golden  vessels  of  that  god, 
That  we  may  give  them  to  our  cup-bearers, 
That  we  may  drink  and  curse  and  shame  his 

vaunt, 


8  Poems 

Bring  us  the  golden  vessels!     .     .     ." 

Nothing  loth, 

The  bearded  king,  with  vinous-spattered  mouth 
Gave  forth  an  order.     Came  a  gleam  of  gold, 
In  flash  and  speck  and  point  of  golden  fire, 
In  sparkle,  fleck,  and  glance,  and  coruscation, 
In  shimmer,  sheen,  and  diamond  crenelation, 
In  fettered  dance  of  glowing,  golden  fire, 
As  eunuchs  raised  the  sacred  vessels  high 
Aloft,  and  set  them  down  before  the  king; 
And  seven  lordlings  took  the  seven  cups, 
And  agile  servants  bore  the  brimming  bowls, 
And  filled. 

Belshazzar  staggered  to  his  feet, 
A  thousand  thundered  as  he  raised  his  cup — 
And     silence      rang     adown     the      quivering 

hall.    .    .    . 

For,  yonder,  near  the  sphinx,  upon  the  wall, 
(Quite  smooth  it  was,  save  for  the  antique  men 
That  walked  in  stilted  way  along  the  dado) 
Appeared  the  substance  of  a  clenched  hand, 
Clear-glowing  with  a  fierce,  supernal  light, 
Which  stretched  a  steady  finger  to  the  wall, 
And  traced  a  single  line  of  lettering, 
Thus :    Mene  Mene  Tekel  Upharsin, 
And  ceased,  and  vanished  like  the  levin-flash, 
Leaving  the  letters  burning  on  the  wall 


Paul  Mariett 


In  faintly-quivering,  frozen  lines  of  fire. 

Belshazzar  wavered  back  against  his  throne, 
And  stared  aghast.     His  nerveless  hands  un 
closed, 

The  cup  clashed  down  upon  the  marble  floor, 
The  silvery  echo  sped,  and,  in  the  coigns, 
Died  lingeringly  and  faltered  out  an  end: 
A  perfect  silence  brooded  o'er  the  room. 
Without,    beneath    the    shadowy    aisles    of 

night, 

A  trumpet  blared  defiant,  hard,  and  high! 
Another  and  another,  till  the  air 
Was  vibrant  with  the  timbre  of  their  blasts! 
And  savage  yells  rang  horrid  in  the  streets, 
And     bloody     cries,     and     sharp     despairing 

shrieks.    .    .    . 

The  barbarous   Mede  had  battered  in  the 
gates ! 


II 


Without,  the  air  was  grey  with  sodden  snow, 
The  asphalt  streets  were  slimy,  wet,  and  black, 
Grotesque  with  goblin  mirrorings  of  light, 
Of  lamp  and  shop  and  whirring  motor  car, 
And  roaring  trains  in  beaded  lines  of  light, 
And  club  and  theatre,  hotel  and  house, 


IO  Poems 

All  bright  and  radiant,  instinct  with  light — 
The  light  which  marks  the  City's  nightly  fete. 
A  great  hotel  gave  out  from  porch  and  front, 
And  twenty  towering  rows  of  layered  windows, 
Unstinted  floods  of  yellow  radiance. 
Within,  the  genial  feast  was  at  its  height. 
A  wide-walled,  ample,  crimson  dining-hall, 
Ornate  and  ponderous  with  gilt  and  jade, 
And  carpet  treacherous  with  crimson  plush, 
And  marble,  perfect  as  the  purple  snow, 
And  softly  bright  with  rosy-shaded  light, 
Was  clamorous  with  noisy  revelry — 
Voices  that  laughed  out  ringingly  and  clear; 
The  soft  and  murmurous  sound  of  whispering; 
The  hard  metallic  clatter  of  the  plates; 
The  cluck  and  gurgle  of  the  flowing  wine. 
The  tables  bore  the  brunt  of  scattered  foods 
And  flowers  petal-pillaged  by  the  rout; 
Black-coated  men,  bright-eyed  and  flushed  of 

face, 

Smiled  vacantly  at  women  crowned  with  jewels; 
And  ever,  through  the  throng  and  maze  of 

feasters, 

The  stealthy  waiters  wound  their  silent  way, 
The  walls  and  ceilings  pulsed  and  spilled  the 

sound; 
The  pillars  thro'  the  reek  of  odorous  haze 


Paul  Mariett  II 


Made  oscillations  at  each  drunken  shout. 
Only,  above,  upon  a  marble  base, 
Was  poised  a  dainty,  fragile,  winged  Love, 
His  features  modelled  to  a  frozen  mirth: 
A  beast  himself,  he  fraternized  with  beasts. 

Beneath  the  statue,  at  the  table's  head 
Upon  a  massy  seat  of  antique  oak, 
A  bearded  man  sat,  gazing  at  the  throng, 
Complacent,  haughty,  calm,  and  satisfied, 
His  clumsy  shoulders  square  against  his  chair, 
His  thick-set  fingers  spread  about  a  glass; 
From  this  he  sipped  from  time  to  time,  or  spoke 
A  word  to  women  at  his  either  hand. 

Below,    there    rose    a    slim    and    handsome 

youth, 
And  stood  beside  his  chair,  and  swayed  and 

smiled, 
And  looked  up  at  the  bearded  man  and  spoke: 

"And  truly,  Sir,  a  charming  gathering, 
A  pleasant  company,  a  pleasant  feast, 
And  all  to  do  you  honor.     Sir,  to-night 
We  celebrate  the  final  master-stroke 
That  makes  you  emperor  of  a  thousand  roads, 
That  gives  into  your  hands,  for  your  control, 
The  tangled  meshes  of  innumerous  rails, 
That  bind  the  cities  of  this  continent 
Each  unto  each  and  help  the  cause  of  God — 


12  Poems 

Which  is  to  bind  man  unto  man  in  love." 

(At  that  a  titter  ran  adown  the  hall, 

And  even  the  calm  bearded  man  half-smiled.) 

"Now,  Sir,  in  token  of  our  amity, 
In  praise  of  your  executive  control, 
We  give  to  you  this  golden  loving-cup," 
(Here  waiters  brought  to  him  a  golden  cup) 
"And  we  would   drink  your  health."      (The 

waiter  took 

The  golden  cup  and  gave  it  to  the  man, 
Who  smiled  and  nodded  at  receiving  it.) 
"Fill  to  the  brim!     Stand  up!" 

The  great  hall  rocked 

With  leaping  figures  flashing  to  their  feet, 
And  blurred  with  darting  arms  that  filled  and 

raised 

The    glasses    gleaming    like    a    thousand    dia 
monds — 

And  shoutings  thundered  like  the  roaring  seas ! 
The  bearded  man  swayed  up  and  gained  his 

feet, 

And  grasped  the  cup  and  raised  it  like  a  gavel — 
And      silence      rang     adown     the      quivering 

hall.    .    .    . 

He  parted  lips  to  shape  a  pleasant  word; 
But  no  words  came. 

A  strange  discordant  note 


Paul  Mariett 


Jarred  horrid  in  the  silence  of  the  feast, 
Without  the  heavy  windows  of  the  room, 
Where  the  grey  street  was  sodden  under  snow, 
A  broken  sound  of  distant  song  was  heard, 
A  sound  of  tired  voices  and  a  drum 
Beating  a  weary  march  along  the  street, 
A  faint  and  mocking  travesty  of  song, 
A  stumbling  chant  and  a  bedraggled  hymn. 
It  swelled  and  grew  as  the  long  train  drew 

near, 

And  passed  beneath  the  windows  of  the  room, 
And    ceased — both    drum,    and    cracked,    dis 
cordant  song; 

And  in  that  breathless  stillness  someone  cried: 
"Bread!     Give  us  bread!"    And  then  again, 
"Work!    Bread!" 

Immediately  the  horrid  hymn  resumed, 
The    drum    took    up    the    ragged    marching 

step; 

The  noise  passed  on  adown  the  slimy  street, 
The  noise  grew  faint  adown  the  sodden  street, 
Grew  faint — grew  faint — and  faltered  out  an 
end. 

The  bearded  man  turned  white  and 

staggered  back, 

Swayed  by  his  chair,  then  suddenly  sat  down, 
Dropped  the  gold  cup  upon  the  table  cloth, 


14  Poems 

Looked  here,  looked  there,  with  nervous,  shift 
ing  eyes, 

Smiled  foolishly,  and  took  again  the  cup, 
And  drank  the  golden  contents  at  a  draught — 
And  bade  the  feast  proceed. 

The  merriment 

Began  anew;   but  mirthless  merriment 
It  proved.     And  till  the  finish  of  the  feast, 
The  guests  ate,  drank,  and  jested  with  no  ease. 
No  voices  laughed  out  ringingly  and  clear; 
No  soft  and  murmurous  sound  of  whispering; 
No  cheerful  clattering  of  plate  and  glass; 
Only  the  memory  of  a  distant  song, 
A  song  of  tired  voices,  and  a  drum 
Beating  a  weary  march  along  the  street, 
A  faint  and  mocking  travesty  of  song, 
A  stumbling  chant  and  a  bedraggled  hymn. 
So  they  broke  up  at  length  and  went  their 

ways. 

That   night   the   order   of    all    things    was 
changed. 


Paul  Mariett  15 


THE    HOUSE    OF   ERIC 

*  I  VHE  wine  and  fire  of  life  have  entered  my 

blood;   I  am  lord  of  Alida. 
I  have  won  her  and  led  her  home  to  my  hall, 

shy-glancing  and  startled. 
Such  a  wife,  such  a  woman !     No  man  but  had 

hoped  to  obtain  her! 
The  wine   and   fire   of   life   have   entered  my 

blood;   I  am  lord  of  Alida. 

The   wine   and   fire   of  life   have   entered  my 

blood;   I  am  sire  of  a  man-child. 
Strong  and  lusty  is  he,  golden-locked  with  the 

eyes  of  his  father; 
In  the  court  they  are  forging  the  blade  he  shall 

bear  in  the  brunt  of  the  battle. 
The   wine   and  fire   of   life   have   entered   my 

blood;   I  am  sire  of  a  man-child. 

The  ice  and  cold  of  death  have  entered  my 
blood;  I  am  reft  of  my  man-child. 

He  has  gone  to  the  country  of  gloom  and  of 
sorrow  and  sighing; 


1 6  Poems 

Break  the  blade  which  was  forged  for  his  hand 
to  direct  in  the  brunt  of  the  battle! 

The  ice  and  cold  of  death  have  entered  my 
blood;  I  am  reft  of  my  man-child. 

The  ice  and  cold  of  death  have  entered  my 

blood;    I  am  reft  of  Alida. 
Such  a  wife,  such  a  woman !     My  grief  has  no 

words  to  recall  her! 
I  have  put  her  below,  with  the  child,  in  the 

embrace  of  the  earth  like  iron. 
The  ice  and  cold  of  death  have  entered  my 

blood;    I  am  reft  of  Alida. 


Paul  Marie tt  17 


SEA    SONNETS 
North 

/"T~SHERE,  where  the  massy  sea  outweighs  the 

main — 

Blank  ice;  tossed  hillocks  rounded  under  snow; 
Grey,  grasping,  twisted  cliffs,  an  endless  row, 
Their  feet  in  frozen  inlets;    on  a  lane 
Of  straying  open  water,  all  lurdane 
With  iron  ripples,  black  and  very  slow, 
Which,  in  the  night,  the  restless  northern  glow 
Paints  intermittent  with  ensanguined  stain — 

There,  days  on  days,  the  wind  is  visible, 
When,  like  a  figure  in  a  great,  grey  dream, 
The  heavy  air  with  snow  is  ponderable; 
Or,  if  it  cease,  a  small  and  bitter  moon 
Glows,  tangling  in  the  tinkling  ice  her  gleam, 
Where  icy  waves  crunch  a  metallic  tune. 

South 

'"T""VHE  fragile  seas  that  cherish  in  their  waves 
The  silvery  voicings  of  a  sunnier  time; 
The  pearly  grots  of  spiral  coral  caves, 
The  topaz-freighted,  iridescent  rime; 


1 8  Poems 

The  grass,  which  underneath  the  lucent  floor, 
Forgets  the  world  to  sway  its  livid  arms; 
The  lapping  ripples  talking  to  the  shore : — 
The  southern  ocean  and  her  sensuous  charms ! 

Upon  the  silver  strand  the  tiny  shells 
Are  golden  coins  from  some  wrecked  galleon; 
Behind,  a  scimitar  of  sand-dunes  swells; 
Beyond,  the  gulls  are  fishing,  in  the  sun, 
Flat,  azure  pools  that  stare  against  the  sky, 
Or  wink  whene'er  a  faint  breeze  loiters  by. 


T 


The  Coasters 

HE  perfect  curve  of  a  bellying  sail; 

The  swish  of  white  water  under  the 

rail; 

The  sibilant  song  of  the  sharp  salt  wind; 
Blue  skies  above;   blue  seas  behind, 
And  off  are  we  in  our  graceful  craft 
From  the  harbor  mouth.     The  little  waves 

laugh 

And  croon  at  the  churning  bow, 
As  we  charge  the  changing  flow 
Of  the  tides  that  come  and  go, 
With  staunch,  unyielding  prow. 
We  skirt  the  coasts  where  the  headlands  rise; 


Paul  Marie tt  19 


We  slip  through  the  teeth  of  the  jagged  reef; 
The  north  wind  blows  in  our  eyes. 
We  skim  the  coast  by  the  beach  that  lies 
White  and  gleaming  in  noonday  heat, 
With  breakers  thundering  at  its  feet, 
And  a  faint  white  line  of  frothy  foam 
Half  up  its  breadth — but  on  we  roam. 

The  fair  wind  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day. 
Out  anchor!   we'll  ride  this  night  in  the  bay. 
The  darkness  steals  up  and  we  fade 
In  the  gloom,  a  ghostly  shade. 
Like  a  nun  in  black  arrayed 
Comes  night. 

We  are  rocking  here  in  the  earliest  morn, 

In  the  solemn  hush  ere  the  day  is  born, 

When  the  water,  grey  and  chill, 

Oilily  swells  and  slips, 

And  rolls  the  helpless  ships, 

As  they  nod  at  their  anchor  ropes. 

Behind,  the  precipitous  slopes 

Of  the  barely  discernible  hill, 

Half-lit  are  grey  and  still. 

Up  leaps  the  sun,  the  jovial  sun! 
Away  with  sleep,  the  day's  begun! 


2O  Poems 

Up    creaks    the    sail;     good!    a    freshening 

breeze! 
Push  over  the  tiller;    hold  hard  with  your 

knees, 

For  the  wind  begins  to  blow. 
Then  away  we  glide  on  the  reddening  tide 
To  the  sea's  new  ecstasies; 
The  sea's  new  joys  to  know. 


Paul  Mariett  21 


AND  A  WIFE  IN  EVERY  PORT 

CURFEIT  of  kisses, 

^      Enough ! 

Leave  me.     I  care  not.     Well,  think  of  it 

later — 
When  your  ship's  on  the  water  and  sailing — 

you  loved  me. 
I  love  you?     O,  foolish!     'Twere  better  to 

hate  her, 

She  who  has  hardly  a  heart  of  such  stuff, 
Nor  even  misses.    .    .    . 

Men  I  have  known 

Before — 

Some  of  them  loved  me  a  little — 'twas  pas 
time; 

Some  of  them  handsome, — well,  none  of 
them  moved  me. 

That  isn't  true,  No!     This  is  the  last  time. 

Go  ere  you  hate  me — the  wind  is  off-shore — 

Leave  me  alone. 


22  Poems 


CREW    PRACTICE 
QNE! 

The   long   lean   lance   of   the   polished 
shell, 
Tempered,  springy,  lithe,  alive. 

Two! 

The  straight  thin  black  wake  behind, 

With  its  attendant  maelstroms  in  regular  order. 

Three! 

The  rhythmic  oars  that  sweep  out,  out, 
Catch,   hold,   slide,   come  clear,   dripping  dia 
monds. 

Four! 

The  small  clean  wind  that  tickles  on  the  bare 

neck, 
Lifts   the   curls,   travels    exquisitely   down   the 

spine. 

Five! 

The  brown  brawn  of  the  moulded  arm, 
Its   infinite   motions  melting   into   one   perfect 
movement. 


Paul  Mariett  23 


Six! 

The  coxswain,  one  great  hollow  megaphoned 

mouth, 
With  tense,  nervous,  small  straining  hands. 

Seven! 

The   whole   body   and   soul   ardently   desiring 

speed; 
And  the  crawl,  crawl,  crawl  of  the  monotonous 

dun  banks. 

Eight! 

The  utter  uselessness  of  existing,  driven  thus, 
Insensate,  machine-like — but  the  glory  in  the 
future ! 


24  Poems 


THE   TRADE    WIND 

T    AM  the  monarch  of  sea-born  winds.     My 

throne  is  an  empty  place 
Built  of  the  buoyant,  billowing  breeze  in  the 

loftiest  bounds  of  space. 
I  give  the  rein  to  my  coursers  fain  to  tread  in 

the  upper  air; 
With   plangent  paces  and  tautened  traces  we 

ruffle  the  sea-plain  bare. 
To  waken,  my  task,  the  ships  that  bask  and 

drift  in  the  lazy  sun, 

And  set  them  free  on  the  leaping  sea  till  the 
waning  months  outrun: 
Till  the  waning  months  outrun,  uncurbed, 
Till  the  hulks  are  hot  for  home, 
Till  the  hearts  of  the  mariners  leap  dis 
turbed — 

So  they  bound  to  the  ropes  and  trim  the  sails, 
And  the  ship  heels  swiftly,  the  gunwale  wails, 
And  spits  in  flecks  of  foam ! 

O  Home ! 
And  spits  in  flecks  of  foam! 


Paul  Marie tt  25 


My  wanton  winds  have  spilt  the  rain  from  the 

lips  of  the  tilted  clouds; 
Pulling  and  pushing  the  sluggish  banks   they 

charge  in  changing  crowds. 
No  spot  or  stain  of  cloud  or  rain  shall  sully  my 

heavens  clean, 
If  the  clouds  will  weep  my  winds  will  sweep 

and  naught  shall  intervene, — 
And  the  sun  shall  beam  and  the  waters  dream 

and  the  sea  birds  cry  in  glee, 
For  they  know  that  I  who  shall  never  die  will 

keep  their  eyrie  free : 

Will  keep  their  eyrie  free  and  dry, 

Will  keep  their  sunny  sea, 

Will  make  the  gloomy  rain  clouds  fly — 
So  they  float  on  the  lifting  wave,  or  rise, 
And  their  bosoms  white  and  their  emerald 
eyes 

Are  warm  for  the  love  of  me  I 
O  Sea! 

Are  warm  for  the  love  of  me! 


26  Poems 


SIRENS 

1\/TILES  of  tumbled  rocks  about  a  bay, 

Black  and  red  and  rugged,  grim-lipped 

and  cold  with  caverns. 
Above  the  emerald  of  sloping  downs  against  a 

sparkling  sky, 
Rolling  up  against  a  cobalt  sky. 

Between  the  ship  and  leeward  shore  the  sea  is 

azure. 
Laughing  sea  and  dancing  sea  and  cavernous 

with  color ! 
All  the  sky  has  tumbled  in  it  to  stain  it  with  its 

dye-stuff — 
Dimpled,   restless,   curling  azure  flecked  with 

iridescent  white-caps. 

Laughing  wind  and  dancing  water  and  beauti 
ful  the  women, — 

Pearl  against  the  dun  rocks  where  the  silver 
belt  of  beach 

Takes  the  breaker  on  its  breast,  decks  itself 
with  rustling  foam, — 

Bright  of  hair  and  bright  of  breast  and  wild  of 
look  and  wild  of  gesture. 


Paul  Marie tt  27 


Sweet  mouths  curled  seductively  for  love. 

Yet  deep  eyes  half-regretful,  half  forgetful, 
half-reviving.  .  .  . 

O  wonderful  destroyers,  ye  are  living  forms  of 
Nature ! 

Laughing  wind  and  dancing  water.  Under 
neath, — the  skulls  of  mortals. 


28  Poems 


THE   SPIRIT  IN   THE   SHELL 

'  I  VHERE  is  a  spirit  in  the  sea-shore  shell 

•*•       And  airily  he  sings; 
Sometimes  you  hear  him  faint  as  wind-blown 

bell 

Within  a  dell, 
Sometimes  a  strident  din  abroad  he  flings. 

He  laughs  in  glee  and  taps  with  tiny  hands 

Upon  his  polished  wall; 

You  almost  hear  the  rhythmic  cadence  of  the 

sands 

When  great  waves  fall; 
You  almost  hear  the  rustle  of  the  foam 
What  time  you  hear  his  querulous  crying  in 

his  home. 

A  boisterous  mirth  is  his  on  windy  days — 

A  drunken  craze — 

You  hear  him  beating  on  his  prison  door 

Rejoicing  in  his  strength,  and,  more  and  more 

Making  his  hollow  cell  reverberate 

Interminate. 


Paul  Mariett  29 


But,    when  the   strand  is   still  beneath   the 
moon, 

You  hear  his  croon, 

His  endless  lullaby 
Of  time,  of  change,  of  things  that  swift  pass 

> 

Of  lips,  of  death,  of  things  that  never  die — 
Mysterious  rune! 


30  Poems 


THE    FOAM    FAIRY 

CRASH!  and  the  snow-white  spume  piles 
high 

Against  the  indifferent  rock! 
Up,  up,  the  sparkling  spindrifts  fly 
Skyward  with  the  shock! 
And,  out  above  the  ugly,  shadowed  stone, 
Instant,  sudden,  wraith-like  as  the  dim 
New  moon,  there  shapes  a  fairy  form 
For  but  a  fleeting  moment  of  Time's  flight; 
Ephemeral  as  is  the  whir  of  wings 
The  fleet  foam  brings 
A  nymph's  fair  body  into  light, 
Her  hair  adrift,  her  blue  eyes  sure  and  warm, 
Green  clad  and  grey,  with  long  arms  bare 

and  slim — 
Down  plash  the  sodden  drops!     The  vision 

fair  is  gone ! 


Paul  Mariett  31 


BOSTON 

[As  Seen  From  Harvard  Bridge~\ 

I 
Dawn 

softly  the  heavy-stealing  fog  rolls  off 
the  city's  banks, 
Higher  and  higher  it  crawls  above  the  long, 

low,  level  river, 
Turbidly,  sinuously,  clothing  bridge,  building, 

and  city-flanks, 
All    night   long    it   has    lain    here — almost    it 

seemed  forever. 
Now  with  the  dawn,  the  mist,  afraid  of  the 

coming  sun, 

Loosens  its  lover's  embrace,  rolls  up  and  dis 
solves  in  a  sky 
Rosy  and  warm  and  pregnant  with  promise  of 

day  begun; 
And  last  comes  the  light  itself — till  the  gold 

dome  sparkles  on  high. 


32  Poems 

Great  gold  dome,  saluting  the  dawn,  and  dom 
inating  the  town, 

Symbol  of  that  ideal  toward  which  man  yearns, 
aspires  and  strives. 

Below  you  the  paltry  struggle  goes  on  (in  mal 
ice  and  hate)  for  renown, 

Yet,  as  a  seal  and  sign  of  hope — O,  stand  and 
lift  up  our  lives! 


II 

Noon 

^ 

Over  the  neutral  dun  of  the  dancing  Charles^ 

the  sparklets  play-^— 
Desperate  diamonds  of  hurry  and  flight,  but  . 

born  to  be  snatched  away. 
Your  dancing  is  bounded  on  either  bank  by  the 

park-ways,  swept  and  clear,  , 

Stretching  smoothly  away,  away,  till  almost  a 

mile  in  the  rear, 
The  great  arched  bridge  with  the  four  stone 

feet,  squats  in  the  water  and  lowers. 
In  and  out  in  an  orderly  rout,  its  ways  are 

thronged  with  men; 


Paul  Marie tt  33 


Boston  is  ceaselessly  busy,  flags  flutter  on  sky 
ing  towers; 

Frequent  steeples  rush  up  the  sky — and  over 
all  the  Dome  again! 

Under  that  glowing  bowl  the  city  trembles  and 

glows, 
The  noon-day  sun  looks  hotly  down  on  a-  city 

without  repose, 

A  city  burdened  with  wealth;    there  ceaseless 
v        the  gold  tides  flow. 
I3ut  the  heart  of  the  city — Ah,  who  shall  say? 

-Is  it  clean,  is  it  great  or  no? 


Ill 

Evening 

The  sun  has  been  an  hour  behind  grey  Corey 

Hill, 
And  from  the  sunset  sky  there  falls  a  dove-grey 

mist; 
And  ever 
The  air  and  water  turn  to  silence  save  where, 

ripple-kissed, 


34  Poems 

The  long  line  of  embankment  whispers,  laughs 

and  talks. 
And  now  the  mist  extends  its  tenuous  arms  and 

covers  land  and  river 
With  tender  amethyst. 
The   distant  bridge,   the  shapeless   town,   the 

nearby  walks, 
Fade  into  curious  blues 
Of  myriad  hues; 

And  bank  and  sky  and  house  and  distant  dwell 
ings — 
All  changed  to  looming  shapes  and  formless 

swellings — 

Are  like  a  nocturne  done  in  brown  and  blue, 
More    delicate    than    Whistler's    brush    could 

do- 
Laden  with  heavy  lotos  and  the  weight  of  dank 

despair 
This  all  enshrouding  blue     .    .    .    coils  there. 

Everywhere 

Suddenly  spring  into  being  the  joyous  lights, 
Stringing  their  strands  of  jewels  thro'  the  air, 
In  white  and  yellow  flights. 
The  deepened  blueness  now  is  decked  with  gold, 
The  gleaming  town  stares  mist-bound  at  the 

sky. 
Only  the  dome  swings  free,  picked  out  in  fire. 


Paul  Marie tt  35 


O,  steadfast  and  changeless  symbol  untouched 
by  the  new  or  the  old, 

Even  in  mist  and  dark  to  you  hearts  still  may 
aspire — 

Where  picked  out  in  golden  fire,  your  unfet 
tered  dome  swings  high. 


36  Poems 


FROM   A   GARDEN 

A  H,  sweet  is  the  wind  in  sun  and  shower, 

And  soft  is  the  sward  in  the  Summer 
shade, 

And  sweet  is  the  sleepy,  sun-drenched  hour 
When  noon  in  the  cloudlets  the  breeze  has  laid, 
And  sweet  is  the  pleached  garden's  flower 
O'erspread  by  the  shadow  of  leaflets  frayed; 
But  what  is  there  blowing  in  blossoming  bower 
One  half  as  sweet  as  yourself,  dear  maid? 


Paul  Marie tt  37 


LYRIC 

T    OVE  me  for  the  spirit  that  is  in  me, 
*-^     Not  for  my  face; 
Love  me  for  the  lovely  thoughts  I  shelter, 
Not  for  my  grace. 

Love  me  for  the  love  of  thee  within  me, 
The  rest  is  fleet; 

Love  me  for  the  hidden  link  that  binds  us,- 
And  yet  complete. 

Love  me  for  the  half  of  thee  within  me, 
Mere  beauty  flies; 

Love  me  now,  and  love  me,  Love,  forever ;- 
The  body  dies. 


38  Poems 


TRIBUTE 

TN  you  the  sum  and  substance  of  the  past — 
•*•      In  you  unnumbered  women  stir  and  speak. 
In  you  vague,  brooding  shadow-shapings  seek 
To  guide  your  hesitant  footsteps  sure  and  fast. 
In  you  are  all  the  women-souls  that  passed 
Unknown  or  noted  through  the  ages.     Greek, 
Perhaps,  the  lovely  color  of  your  cheek; 
The  treasure  of  your  hair  in  Rome  amassed; 
A  Gallic  grey  the  lustre  of  your  eyes; 
Perhaps  Boadicea  had  that  grace — 
And  all  of  you  an  Eve  in  Paradise! 
You  are  the  cosmos-child — her  sufferance, 
Moulded  and  shaped  in  plastic  ignorance 
Toward  the  perfection  of  a  future  race. 


Paul  Mariett  39 


AFTERMATH 

WELL,  it  was  only  a  rose,  after  all, 
And  the  wind  has  pillaged  its  stalk; 
Though  I  thought  as  I  saw  it  through  the  wall, 
In  the  glimpse  of  my  daily  walk, 
That  a  thing  so  fair,  so  perfect  there, 
Would  be  deathless. 

Well,  it  was  only  a  woman's  face, 
And  the  years  have  taken  their  toll, 
Though  I  thought  as  I  saw  it  beyond  my  pace, 
In  the  silent  desire  of  my  soul, 
That  a  thing  so  rare,  so  perfect  there, 
Would  be  deathless. 


4O  Poems 


THE    BRIDGE    BUILDERS 

'  I  VHEY  cluster  there,  those  dots  against  the 
*•        sky; 

So  small  and  fragile  on  the  ordered  beams; 

The  hammers  shout,  a  red-hot  rivet  gleams, 

The  bridge  obeys,  and  grows  beneath  the  eye. 

They  cluster  here,  these  dots  upon  the  sod, 
So  small  and  fragile  on  the  ordered  frame: 
Though   trite    their   parts,    and    transitory, 

fame, 

The  bridge   obeys,   and  grows   from  man  to 
Godl 


Paul  Marie tt  41 


NOON-WHISTLES 

T    IKE  the  plumed  helms  of  a  stern  array 
*-^          When  the  battle  is  well  begun, 
The  streaming  banners  of  snowy  steam 
Flare  suddenly  in  the  sun. 

And  a  blare  of  raucous,  discordant  notes — 

A  brilliant  cacophony — 
Unites  in  a  glorious  major  chord, 

Triumphant,  City,  for  Thee! 


42  Poems 


APRIL 

\T7ARMTH  and  rain,  warmth  and  rain, 
Warmth  and  rain  on  the  earth  again. 

The  sordid  earth, 

The  place  of  birth, 
The  place  of  birth  of  the  grain. 
Washed  by  the  gentle  rain  from  the  sky, 
The  buds  will  crack,  their  cases  dry, 
The  crocus  show  his  purple  eye, 
To  edge  the  emerald  lane. 

April,  April! 

But  hark! 

No  music  now  hath  Nature  for  our  ears 
But  patter,  patter,  dropping,  falling  shower; 
But    smiles    she    hath,    yes,    smiles    amid    her 

tears — 
The  sun  looks  out,  twixt  dripping  clouds  that 

lower, 
And  smiles  the  more — and  gone  are  all  our 

fears 

Old  Winter's  fled,  and  gone  are  all  our  fears. 
Red  roofs  glisten, 
There's  a  mist  on 


Paul  Marie tt  43 


Every  tree,  and  bush,  and  thicket, 
Golden  walk,  and  garden  wicket. 

Here  a  patter, 

There  a  patter, 

Laggard  rain  drops  dropping  after 
Clouds  have  passed.     The  bluer  spaces 
Widen  now.     Like  duchess  laces, 
Little  feathery  streamers  cross  them, 
Woven  gracefully  across  them. 
From  the  South  the  birds  come  winging 
Southern  Summer  with  them  bringing 
I,  in  my  heart,  am  with  them  singing 

April,  April! 


44  Poems 


JUNE 

/  •  VHE  meadow,  swollen  with  rank  up-burst 

of  grasses, 

Lies  level  to  the  light  of  the  golden  sun; 
Delicate  dreams  of  daisies,  one  by  one, 
Droop  and  rebound,  as  o'er  their  petals  passes 
The    stir    of    the    morning   breeze.      In    rosy 

masses, 

Like  balls  of  billowing  smoke,  the  apple  trees 
Against  the  wall,  are  over-ripe  for  bees; 
And   single    blossoms,    cupped   like    hands    of 

lasses, 
Scatter  and  litter  the  ground  at  the  touch  of  the 

wind. 
Sun's    up!      'Tis    June!      And    yesterday    it 

rained.    .    .    . 
Dust's   pearl    and  precious,    heaven's   grandly 

stained 

With  azure.  Here  discern  the  open  mien 
Of  Nature,  and  infrequent,  baffling  gained, 
The  spirit  underneath  it — just  half-seen! 


Paul  Mariett  45 


A  DIAMOND  DAY 

RAGILELY-sheathed,  iridescent-embossed, 

In  sparkle  of  crystal-silvery  frost, 
A  frozen  forest  dazzlingly  tossed 
To  a  faint,  soft  azure  sky. 

Nothing  there  is  without  its  ice, 
Boles  have  bucklers  of  strange  device, 
Twigs  twinkle  their  needles.     Nice 
The  curious  craft  of  the  frost. 

Tangled  boughs  break,  tinkle,  and  cry, 
Creak,  squeak,  rattle,  brittle  and  dry. 
Small  gold  sun  stalks  up  the  sky; 
Trees  stand  still  in  the  light. 

Thin  little  wind  pipes  down  the  way, 

Brown     branches,      slim     branches,     gnarled 

branches  sway, 

Rustle  and  rustle  and  rustle  alway — 
Shatter  to  prismatic  light  I 


46  Poems 


FALLING   LEAVES 

T?AINT  fragments  of  forgotten  melodies 

•*•        Flashed  from  the  fiery  fingers  of  the  Bard 

Before    time   was,    before    the    heavens    were 

starred, 

Before  earth  framed  her  straining  agonies; 
The  warp  and  woof  of  mighty  tapestries 
Strewed  for  an  unimagined  footprint's  tread, 
A  carpet  golden,  auburn,  yellow,  red, 
Shimmering  and  sheeny  in  the  swirling  breeze; 

This  is  the  fall  of  the  leaves  in  Autumn  time: 
Each  leaf  a  note  of  that  old  harmony 
Which  shivers  the  age's  taciturnity: 
Each  leaf  a  thread  in  that  prodigious  weave, 
Worked  on  the  web  of  Summer's  sunny  prime, 
And  which  naught  but  the  Weaver  shall  con 
ceive. 


Paul  Mariett  47 


CAT-TAILS 

/^AT-TAILS  nodding  brightly  in  the  after- 

^^      noon  sunshine 

Along  a  dun  and  dreary,  blue-black  ditch; 

Soft,  cylindrical,  and  brown,  and  fluffy-headed, 

Green-leaved,  and  silver-scattered: 

Some  quite  new,  and  some  wind-battered, 

Growing  straightly,  growing  greatly, 

On  the  summit  and  upon  the  banks  steep  pitch ; 

The  lower  almost  bedded 

In  the  brine. 

Around,  about,  in,  out, 
Go  darting  busy,  nervous  dragon-flies, 
Blue  and  golden, 
Flying  swift,  but  half-beholden 
Red  and  grey  and  green — translucent  dyes, 
Sometimes  resting,  sometimes  questing; 
But  ever,  ever  haunting  the  flaunting 
Cat-tails  by  the  brine; — 

Cat-tails  nodding  brightly  in  the  afternoon  sun 
shine. 


48  Poems 


DEAD  LEAVES 

you  hear  them  lightly  rushing,  pushing, 

crowding,  striving,  fluttering, 
Filling  air  and  lawn  and  roadway  with  their 

intermatching,  intermating, 
One  by  one,  and  ten  by  ten,  and  thousands  by 

their  thousands, 
In  rank  and  file  and  cohort,  or  in  mob  and  rout 

and  riot? 

Mighty  Autumn,  mighty  Autumn  is  the  Quick- 

ener  and  Destroyer; 
And  the  leaves  that  voice  the  voiceless  earth 

are  whispering,  muttering. 
For  the  leaves  from  earth  to  earth  have  come, 

from  earth  to  earth  are  going — 
Lying  on  the  shadeless  alleys,  crowding  on  the 

muffled  roadway. 

When  you  tread  them  scattered  thinly,  or 
plough  through  them,  ankle-pushing, 

While  they  talk  and  laugh  and  chatter,  sigh  and 
sob,  expostulating, 


Paul  Mariett  49 


Know  that  these  are  various  voices  of  the  dead 

that  earth  embraces: 
Faint  and  fragile  as  the  leaves  are,  so  the  dear 

forgotten  voices. 


50  Poems 


A  RAINY  SUNSET 

A  THWART  the    silvered   rain   the   sunset 

gleams 

Gaudy  and  golden  through  the  filing  rain; 
And,  built  across  the  heaven,  a  rosy  lane, — 
Where  wandering  hellish  fire  incessant  teems — 
Still  blushes  for  the  kiss  of  the  dead  sunbeams. 
Beneath,  the  muffled  lineaments  of  the  hills 
With  rounded  depths,  a  shifting  silver  fills — 
The  shifting  silver  of  departed  dreams — 
Are  wet  and  black  and  far  and  as  unreal 
As  if  this  were  a  shadow  world,  and  they, 
The  mythic  mountains  of  a  former  day. 
Still  in  the  stealing  silence  rings  the  rain, 
The  tears  of  Earth  which  weeps  a  bitter  pain, 
A  bitter  pain  no  glowing  sky  can  heal. 


Paul  Marlett 


VILLANELLE  OF  A  NORTHERN  LIGHT 


T  N  the  cold  beauty  of  the  waning  moon, 
•*•      Low  over  level  fields  of  shining  snow, 
I  hear  the  memory  of  an  Iceland  rune, 

Sung  in  the  elder  days — a  stately  tune 
Wherein  the  red  and  bearded  vikings  go 
In  the  cold  beauty  of  the  waning  moon. 

Hush !     Far  and  fragile,  tiny  as  a  croon, 
Beatings  of  subtle  elfin  footsteps?    No, 
I  hear  the  memory  of  an  Iceland  rune. 

'Tis  Wodin's  heavy  tread,  or  Freya's  shoon, 
Or  mighty  Thor  who  strikes  a  hammer-blow, 
In  the  cold  beauty  of  the  waning  moon? 

No.    O'er  the  blue  and  glassy-smooth  lagoon 
There  is  a  winding  music  falling  slow: 
I  hear  the  memory  of  an  Iceland  rune. 

For  jealous  Time  withholds  the  final  boon; 
So,  when  the  level  field  is  glowing  low 
In  the  cold  beauty  of  the  waning  moon, 
I  hear  the  memory  of  an  Iceland  rune. 


52  Poems 


T 


A  NIGHT-IMPRESSION 

HE  moon  burns  in  a  silver  mist 

Like    a    rotting    tree-trunk    phosphor- 
kissed, 

Looms  and  burns  in  the  heavy  air — 
Low-hung  and  swaying  there 
Where  the  grey  mist  spells  Despair. 

Half  of  the  wan  road  has  the  moon; 

The  other  half  is  a  blind  lagoon. 

Bright,  wan  line  where  the  moonshine  lags 
The  road  climbs  out  o'er  its  upper  crags, 
Where  sultry  vapor  loiters,  drags. 

The  sodden  meadow,  grey  and  dank, 

Rolls  up  sheer  to  the  drumlin  flank: 
Against  the  moon  I  plainly  see 
Tortured  cedars,  one,  two,  three; 
One,  two  three,  and  one,  two,  three. 

Nether  dark  has  no  such  night 

As  this  grey,  morbid,  stealing  light. 
Life  burns  low  in  this  listless  air, 
Heavy  with  carking,  eating  Despair; 
Despair!  the  grey  moon  mocks — 'Despair!' 


Paul  Mariett  53 


LIFE 

T7OOT  by  foot  up  a  shrouded  stair, 
•*•      Wearily  and  crying, 
Toiling  and  sighing, 
Beating  of  breasts  and  tearing  of  hair- 
Foot  by  foot  up  a  shrouded  stair. 

League  on  league  down  a  gilded  way, 

Carelessly  chaffing, 

Shallowly  laughing, 

Revel  and  joyaunce  and  beautiful  clay,- 
League  on  league  down  a  gilded  way. 


54  Poems 


DESOLATION 

'  I  VHE  cold  wind  blows  in  the  apple  tree, 

Where  Autumn's  fruit  was  fair  to  see. 
There  is  no  thing  to  comfort  me. 

The  grass  has  vanished  under  snow. 
It  must  be  cold  and  chill  below. 
It  would  be  cold  to  me  I  know. 

The  cold  sleet  beats  against  the  pane. 
The  sky  is  full  of  bitter  rain. 
It  is  less  bitter  than  my  pain. 

I  pray  you,  chilly  winds  that  blow, 
I  pray  you,  bitter  flakes  of  snow, 
I  pray  you  tell  me,  if  you  know, 

Where  did  my  wandering  lover  go?     .     .     . 
I  would  that  he  were  here  again.     .     .     . 
I  think  that  he  would  pity  me.     .     .     . 


Paul  Marie tt  55 


LIFE-WEARY 

T  T  7HAT  if  I  say  to  the  new  born, 

"Glory  on  earth;  in  heaven  be  peace,' 
Since  angels  have  lost,  this  painful  morn, 

One  of  their  choir  by  birth's  decrease? 
Why,  if  I  sing  that,  I  shall  say: 

"Earth  is  a  vale  of  tears!" 

What  if  I  say  to  the  new  dead, 

"Glory  in  heaven,  on  earth  be  peace," 

Since  angels  have  gained,  this  painless  morn, 
One  of  their  choir  by  death's  increase? 

Why,  if  I  sing  that,  I  shall  say, 
"Heaven  is  a  height  of  tears!" 

O  for  a  lifeless  world  to  lie  in ! 

Not  to  be  born  in,  not  to  die  in     ... 

'Tis  all  I  want  of  thee. 

O,  Power,  grant  it  to  me  I 


56  Poems 


AFTER  BATTLE 

I_JAIL!    How  thou  comest  in  pride  from  the 
171      battle! 

Crowned  with  the  glorious  chaplet  of  zeal. 
Arms  and  the  chariot  how  well  they  become 

thee, 
Buckler  and  corslet  and  helmet  and  steel! 

See!  thou  art  pale!    Is  it  anger  resurgent? 
Righteous  is  wrath  'gainst  a  cowardly  foe. 
Mighty  thine  arms!    Are  they  lax? — They  are 

weaned, 
Wearied  with  hewing  and  bending  the  bow. 

See,  here  is  blood!  Here  is  blood  of  the  foe- 
men. 

No.  It  is  thine!  Thou  hast  struggled  and 
slain. 

Awful  thy  wounds — but  wounds  are  a  glory, 

And  blood  is  the  sign  of  a  glorious  pain. 

Wilt  thou  not  speak?     See,  I  bend  me  before 

thee; 
I,  thy  true  wife,  I  bend,  I  beseech. 


Paul  Marie tt  '57 


Grant'st  me  no  word  then?    Ay,  that  becomes 

thee. 
Death  hath  no  speech.    Nay.     Death  hath  no 

speech. 


58  Poems 

A  HYMN  AFTER  THE  GREEK 

[/«  Choriambics] 

OURF  and  smoke  of  the  surf,  emerald  bright, 

^      green  and  the  froth  of  foam; 

Cliffs  in  towering  shafts,   purple   and  mauve, 

crimson  and  grey  and  black; 
Ruby,  faintly  maroon  sands,  and  the  blown  dust 

of  the  land  and  loam 
Pounded,  crushed  in  the  mill,  beaten  and  flung 

out  from  the  rock — and  back : 

Upward,  high  on  the  cliffs  cloven  by  wind,  rain 

and  the  hand  of  heat: 
Fleeced  with  grass  of  an  hue  exquisite,   pale 

green  with  a  hint  of  blue; 
Sprinkled  thickly  with  gems,  flowers  of  gold, 

couch  for  a  queen  most  meet; 
Yea,  if  you  will  see,  here  is  She  laid,  Love  and 

her  lovers,  too  1 


Paul  Marie tt  59 


VOICELESS 

TS  there  a  painter  to  picture  the  moonlight? 
•*•      Is  there  a  singer  to  compass  the  sea? 
Is  there  a  poet  can  tell  of  the  starlight? 

Then  how  can  I  tell  of  my  longing  for  thee? 


60  Poems 


REMEMBRANCE 
[From  the  Spanish  of  G.  A.  Becquer] 

"VTOUR  eyes  are  blue,  and  when  you  smile, 

Their  perfect  clarity  recalls  to  me 
The  tremulous  gleam  of  rosy  morning,  while 
It  coloreth  the  sea. 

Your  eyes  are  blue,  and  when  you  weep, 

With  transient,  crystal  tears  the  blue  is  wet; 

Like  drops  of  dew  that  in  the  dawning  sleep 
Upon  a  violet. 

Your  eyes  are  blue,  and  when  I  gaze 
Therein  where  soul  and  spirit  hidden  are, 

It  seems  I  see  the  solitary  blaze 
That  points  the  evening  star ! 


Paul  Marie tt  61 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  MALPICA 

[From  the  Spanish] 

TJTTHENE'ER  the  Marquis  of  Malpica, 

The  Holder  of  the  Royal  Key, 
To  questions  asked,  replies  with  silence, — 
He  says  his  all,  unwittingly. 


62  Poems 


COMING  HOME  FROM  THE  PLAY 
[Midnight] 

"VTOU  leave  the  yellower  splotch  of  light 

That  marks  the  city's  nightly  fete, 
And  turn  into  your  quiet  street 
That  stretches  dim  and  straight. 

Monotonously,  block  on  block, 
A  wall  of  homes  on  either  hand. 

In  ordered  way,  at  every  street, 
The  blue  electrics  stand. 

Your  grotesque  shadow  goes  before, 
Or  limply  trails  along  behind, 

And  threatens  you  with  goblin  arms, 
Or  flees  you  like  the  wind. 

And,  huddled  there,  beneath  the  light, 
Against  the  arching,  iron  post, 

A  woman,  sere  and  thin  and  sharp, 
Not  twenty  at  the  most. 


Paul  Mariett  63 


Like  a  live  thing,  a  tiny  wind 

Snaps  at  her  cheap  and  tawdry  clothes : — 
High  on  its  mast,  aloofly  pure, 

The  steady  radiance  glows. 

You  pass  her  with  averted  face 
To  try  to  miss  her  smiling  leer, 
Avoid  her  low,  suggestive  voice, 
And  what  you  would  not  hear. 

You  mount  your  worn,  familiar  steps, 
And  enter  soft  the  dim-lit  hall, 
And  shut  the  world  outside  the  door, 
And  wonder  at  it  all. 


64  Poems 


ANTIQUITAS   AUROSA 

TN  Greece  of  old,  they  led  a  different  life. 

(This  from  my  thoughts)      There  was  a 

fair  abode — 

The  course  of  life  was  one  long,  golden  road; 
Afar  were  sordid,  ugly,  futile  strife, 
Like  that  with  which  our  modern  time  is  rife: 
But  singing,  joying,  loving — all  in  mirth, 
One  watched  old  beauty  or  new  beauty's  birth — 
Beauty  and  Being,  wedded  man  and  wife. 

Not  so :  though  now  we  see  naught  but  the  gold, 
(And  this  from  my  thoughts}   there  was  the 

grey,  to  fold 

And  flaunt  its  sordid  rags  about,  as  well; 
Beneath,  the  usual  crusted  human  mold; — 
Did  one  man  dine  on  meat  and  muscatel 
Another  starved.    Did  this  one  rise,  this  fell. 


Paul  Mariett  65 


EXOTIC 

1LJAIR  not  gold,  but  dross  of  gold  made 
-••-*      bright; 

Eyes  not  brown,  but  tawny  as  the  sands; 
Small  cool  mouth  that  sparkles  with  a  light 
Laughter.     Little  sun-kissed  feet  and  hands. 

This  is  she  who  takes  the  heart  of  man; 
Takes  it  in  her  cruel  hands,  a  trust — 
Pledge  concluded  where  a  love  began — 
Gives  it  back  as  blackened  ash  and  dust. 

This  is  she  who  tricks  and  smiles,  and  blows 
Kisses  with  light  lips  no  death  forgets; 
This  is  she  who  plays  with  love  and  knows 
Nothing  of  the  pain  which  love  begets. 

Is  there  no  sentience  of  full  tragedy, 
No  sorrow  in  your  heart,  no  little  trace 
Of  this  great  helpless  sorrow  you  set  free 
In  seal  or  sign  of  penitence  on  your  face, 


66  Poems 

Judith?  or  any  sweetness  in  your  ways; 
Any  warm  swelling  in  your  perfect  breast; 
Any  warm  softness  in  your  haughty  gaze? 
Is  it  all  mockery  of  my  unrest? 

Hate!    Can  one  hate  this  separated  thing? 
Does  it  avail  to  hate  the  supple  cat 
Because  it  struck  and  maimed  you,  proffering 
Friendship  and  food  and  haven?    Yet,  in  that, 

Lies  the  hard  answer.    You  would  far  away, 
Out  where  the  sea  is  jewelled  by  the  wind, 
Diamond  with  diamond  matching,   swim  and 

play— 
Or  in  green  mirth  of  meadows  pleasure  find. 

Nature — you  are  a  part  of  that  great  wheel, 
Judith.    You  torture,  as  She  does,  unseen, 
Inscrutable,  and  purposeful.    You  feel 
One  with  her,  shrined  in  her  aloof  demesne. 

"I  feel  this  tree  a  comrade,  trusted  friend." 
Or,  "How  the  day  caresses  favored  me." 
Fool !  you  are  blasted  by  great  cold.     Forfend 
That  Nature  should  so  stoop  to  you,  or  see. 


Paul  Mariett  67 


Such  is  Judith — altogether  Hers. 
Judith  has  caught  the  subtle  secrecy, 
Nature  she  knows  to  bend,  herself  averse 
From  any  kindly  feeling,  as  is  She, — 

Such  is  Judith.    In  the  tidal-breast, 
Swelling  along  the  beach,  she  hears  a  Voice. 
Deep  in  the  faint  grey  forest  she  may  rest, 
Rest  and  be  comforted.     She  may  rejoice, 

Shout  with  the  splendor  of  the  clarion  dawn, 
Rock  in  the  drowsy  cradle  of  the  noon, 
Sleep  in  the  dusty  glimmer  of  the  spawn 
Of  starry  worlds,  warmed  by  the  gentle  moon. 

Such  is  Judith     .     .     .     God!   to   swim  and 

play, 

Laugh  with  the  ripples  of  the  shelving  shore, 
Feel  me  a  part  of  that  great  Vast,  away 
From  God  and  man,  with  her  forevermore  I 


68  Poems 


ALWAYS   TO    GROW 

PIRIT  of  all  things  changes  and  grows: 
Last  year's  canker  is  this  year's  rose, 
Next  year's  lily  perhaps.    None  knows. 

That  which  was  foul  shall  come  to  be  clean: 
That  which  was  hidden  shall  come  to  be  seen 
Glory,  nobility,  deep  in  the  mean. 

Life  leaps  up  with  the  throb  of  the  world: 
Harder  and  harder  its  blows  are  hurled. 
Known !    Where  the  unknown  lay,  close-furled. 

Grant  then,  spirit,  thy  fearless  grace : 
Toward  the  future  set  my  face — 
Shall  I  be  halt  in  so  glorious  a  race? 


Paul  Marictt  69 


NOT  LETHE 

T>  UBBLES  in  Circe's  wine; 

-*-^      Froth  of  a  cup  of  poppy; 

The  taste  of  the  lips  of  a  Lotos-eater; 

The  friendly  feel  of  an  icy  death  in  voluptuous 

snow; 

The  utter  languor  of  a  Summer  noon; 
You! 
Aye ;  but  not  Lethe ! 


70  Poems 


ACROSTIC  SONNET  TO  COLORS  AND 
CAROLINE 

/CURIOUS  it  is  to  find,  these  latter  days, 
^^     A  soul  indignant  at  the  world's  dull  eyes ; 
Red  is  the  fervent  Bible  which  she  buys, 
O  such  a  red!  and  all  she  owns  one  blaze — 
Long-satisfying  colors  that  should  raise 
(If  they  were  courteous)  felicitous  cries — 
Not  a  phantasma  of  cacophonies — 
Even  a  harmonious  match  of  blended  praise. 

Do  you  be  gracious,  colors,  let  us  see 
Upon  all  fabrics,  textures  she  employs 
Deep-lustred  tones  of  yours  that  man  enjoys : 
Let  you  be  flawless,  her  results  will  prove; 
Endanger  nothing,  though  her  work  be  free — 
You  must  be  moved,  and  first  of  all  must  move  1 


Paul  Marie tt  71 


DEPARTURE  FROM  PORT 

LL  clear  before  us?"  saith  the  master. 

"All  clear!"  the  pilot  saith. 
"Aye,  save  death!" 

Mused  the  master. 


72  Poems 


CREPUSCULE 

TIT  HAT  joy,  against  the  dim,  grey  window- 
pane, 

Beyond  which  lies  the  dim,  grey  dying  west, 
To  see  again  my  mother  sit  at  rest, 
Pale  with  a  pallor  no  warm  sun  could  stain, 
Fighting  the  anguish  that  for  years  had  lain 
Grim  and  unconquered  in  her  woman-breast; 
To  hear  her  brave  voice  by  no  pain  distressed; 
To  know  her  all  material  flesh  again: 

For  thus  she  sat  at  eve  when  light  was  frail 
Without,  no  light  or  sound  within  the  room; 
Slim,  fragile,  tender,  by  her  pain  made  pale, 
Ah,   could  I  reach  her,  groping  through  the 

gloom, 

Kneel  at  her  feet  and  lay  my  worn  head  there 
And  feel  her  comforting  fingers  on  my  hair. 


Paul  Marten  73 


THE  GRATEFUL  DEAD 

'  I  VHE  grateful  dead,  they  say,  lie  snug  and 

close 

Under  the  smooth,  soft  sloping  of  the  grass. 
Grateful  indeed  because  above  them  pass 
No  other  steps  than  those  of  wind  or  bird — 
No  other  sound  is  heard. 

For  without  eyes  we  see,  and  earless,  hear; 
Sweeter  is  this  than  nights  of  restless  mood, 
Sweeter  than  nights  of  blank  infinitude, 
Sweeter  than  ghostly  pageants  of  a  dream, 
Half-caught,  of  things  that  seem. 

Another  life  have  we  than  those  who  live, 
Another  death  have  we  than  those  who  die. 
Mortal,  and  ghost  and  angel  pass  us  by — 
Mortal  and  ghost  and  angel  have  one  breath — 
Die,  would  ye  learn  of  death. 


74  Poems 


EX  CARTHAGINE 

Loquitur  gubernator: 

O  O  I  turn  the  helm  and  the  hull  slides  clear, 

(Now  leave  the  rest  to  me} 
For  spattered  out  of  the  din  I  hear 
The  sound  of  the  sea,  the  sudden  sea 
That  lives  and  laughs  to  leap  at  me, 
And  holds  my  vessel  dear; 
(So  rest  ye  easy  here) 
For  I  know  the  way  to  steer, 
For  I  guide  my  ship  to  sea. 

Cast  away! 

We  are  sailing  to-day 

Beyond  the  blue  borders  of  the  bay! 

The  last  rope  plashes;  the  ship  heels; 

The  lush  green  ripples  quarrel 

At  the  stem,  where  the  plaited  laurel 

Decks  the  divinity; 

And  the  whole  lithe  vessel  feels 

The  lure  of  the  outer  sea. 


Paul  Marie tt  75 


So  I  notch  the  prow  on  the  sinking  sun 

At  the  edge  of  the  endless  sea, 

(Now  leave  the  rest  to  me} 

For  play's  done,  toil's  begun — 

Let  women  weep,  we  weep  no  more, 

Our  eyes  are  bright  for  the  distant  shore, 

(Yet  rest  ye  easy  here) 

For  I  know  the  way  to  steer 

Thro'  the  paths  of  the  pathless  sea. 


Cantant  nauta: 

Below  in  the  hold,  for  gold  untold, 
Are  piled  the  bales  of  our  future  sales, 
Bronze  and  tin  and  iron  therein, 
Ivory  thin,  and  the  gloss  of  skin, 
Chamois  fine,  and  the  glint  of  wine 
Quenched  in  jars  of  a  new  design — 

Bales,  bales  in  the  hold  below! 
Viands  meet  for  a  king  to  eat, 
Chryselphantine  his  jewelled  seat, 
Or,  if  he  care  to  anoint  his  hair, 
Here's  Phrygian  oil  that  the  makers  swear 
Smells  riotously  of  the  parsley  bed, 
Or    of    roses    red    when    their    heads   are 
shed — 

Bales,  bales  in  the  hold  below  I 


76  Poems 

Rare  old  woods  whence  a  smell  exudes 
For  perfuming  women's  chattels  and  goods; 
Shields  and  glaives  that  a  barbaros  craves, 
Swords  and  knives  for  the  taking  of  lives, 
Weapons  chased  and  goblets  traced, 
Pattern  with  pattern  interlaced — 

Bales,  bales  in  the  hold  below! 
Amber  yellow  and  onyx  mellow; 
Ruby,  emerald,  amethyst, 
Diamond  glyptics — or  a  twist 
Of  pale  pink  pearls  in  a  bracelet, 
An  amulet,  or  a  carcanet, 
Or,  richer  still,  in  an  armlet  set — 

Bales,  bales  in  the  hold  below! 
But  best  of  all  for  the  glance  to  fall 
Is  there,  in  a  coign  by  the  timber-wall — • 

There's  a  treasure  worthy  a  man's  desire, 
The  lust  of  the  buyer,  the  skill  of  the  dyer, 
Lucent  and  fraught  with  carnelian  fire, 
In  tunic  and  mantle,  the  murex-mire, 
The  perfect  purple,  the  purple  of  Tyre — 
Bales,  bales  in  the  hold  below! 

Loquitur  gubernator: 

So  I  turn  the  helm  to  the  western  blaze  of  the 
sun, 


Paul  Marie tt  77 


Aye,  even  so,  till  the  crimson  haze  of  the 

sail 
And  the  crimson  round  of  that  sinking  fire 

are  one. 
On,     on!      proud-hearted    lords!       Aspire! 

Prevail! 


78  Paul  Mariett 


IN  REMEMBRANCE 

TT  is  hard  and  painful  to  speak  of  those  lately 
dead;  it  is  harder  still  to  set  down  for  the 
world  which  knew  them  scarcely,  or  not  at  all, 
a  record  of  the  few  obvious  experiences  called 
their  life,  and  the  personal  impressions  of  their 
demeanor  and  conduct,  termed  their  character. 
How  much  more  difficult  such  an  annotation  to 
their  achievements  becomes,  when  the  work  of 
the  deceased  must  represent  his  first  and  last 
appearance  before  the  general  public,  the  in 
troduction  and  farewell! 

The  simple  details  of  his  life  cannot  be  of 
absorbing  interest  to  the  world  at  large;  nor 
is  his  character  wholly  explicable  to  one  who 
saw  only  the  last  phase  of  it.  As  for  his  many 
friends,  they  feel  they  knew  him,  but  they  can 
not  speak.  Death  ties  the  tongue  of  intimacy, 
and  delicacy  forbids  the  utilization  of  too  per 
sonal  data.  It  is  as  if  one  exposed  love-letters. 
Numerous  as  were  Paul's  friendships,  they 
seemed  peculiarly  inviolable.  His  letters  were 
among  his  best  writings;  pungent,  terse,  idio 
matic,  full  of  caustic  wit  and  affectionate  rail- 


Paul  Marie tt  79 


lery  and  incisive  criticism,  they  constitute  the 
clearest  image  of  him  to  his  intimate  corre 
spondents.  The  circle  of  his  friends  was  re 
markable  for  the  breadth  and  variety  of  their 
interests,  and  Paul  was  equally  at  ease  were  the 
intercourse  born  of  art,  music,  philosophy,  sci 
ence,  athletic  sports,  or  the  more  elemental  hu 
man  relations. 

It  is  the  genial  and  considerate  host,  the 
ready  listener  and  outspoken  critic,  who  is  re 
membered  oftener  than  the  other, — still  the 
same  Paul,  but  in  the  clutch  of  unbearable, 
immitigable  torments,  lying  helpless  in  drug- 
induced  coma,  or  fighting  up  to  the  surface  of 
consciousness  from  the  depths.  After  a  strug 
gle  of  over  a  year  and  a  half,  the  horror  and 
pain  of  which  no  mind  in  health  can  grasp,  the 
terrible  disease,  tumor  of  the  spine,  had  its  way. 
During  that  period  he  displayed  extraordinary 
powers  of  endurance.  The  indefatigable  crea 
tive  energy  which  had  sustained  him  through 
years  of  health  did  not  subside  until  the  end. 
Before  his  fatal  illness  he  had  read  omnivor- 
ously,  produced  voluminously  short-stories, 
poems,  plays,  critical  articles  and  even  the  por 
tion  of  a  novel,  and  musical  compositions  of 
considerable  power.  It  was  a  frequent  occur- 


8o  In  Remembrance 

rence  for  him  to  write  through  the  greater  part 
of  the  night,  until  the  early  morning  hours. 
While  confined  at  the  Infirmary  of  the  Cam 
bridge  Hospital,  he  wrote  (at  who  knows  what 
expense  of  body  and  spirit!)  some  of  his  best 
poems,  and  criticisms;  and  six  months  later, 
long  after  hope  had  been  abandoned  by  med 
ical  opinion,  he  composed  an  acrostic  in  sonnet 
form,  of  a  brilliance  and  artistic  ingenuity  truly 
astounding.  Even  in  the  last  months  of  his 
sickness,  his  mind  was  filled  with  literary  and 
musical  projects.  He  was  tormented  by  themes 
that  played  through  his  head,  demanding  tran 
scription.  For  a  while  he  tried  a  sort  of  short 
hand  method  of  notation  in  an  endeavor  to 
lessen  the  fatigue  of  writing  notes,  but  the  men 
tal  effort  proved  exhausting,  and  he  was  com 
pelled  to  relinquish  his  attempts.  Everything 
had  to  yield  to  the  exigence  of  his  condition. 
Books,  the  usual  recourse  from  painful  inertia 
or  ennui,  lasted  longer;  but  these  also  had  to 
be  withdrawn,  as  his  little  remaining  strength 
was  required  to  oppose  the  ceaseless  onslaughts 
of  suffering.  And  he  read  with  such  swift,  com 
prehensive  avidity  that  reading  aloud  by  others 
was  unendurable.  His  nerves  suffered  exquisite 
refinement.  A  careless  step,  a  discordant  voice, 


Paul  Marie tt  8 1 


or  a  touch  on  the  skin  were  as  shocks  from  live 
wires,  and  every  emanation  from  those  about 
him  seemed  to  carry  with  it  powers  of  life  and 
death. 

He  who  had  delighted  in  all  legitimate  pleas 
ures  of  the  senses,  in  bodily  and  gustatory 
vigor,  beauty  of  sound,  color,  odors,  and  tactile 
impressions,  experienced  their  perverted  and 
destructive  states  more  and  more  keenly  as  his 
powers  of  resistance  waned.  His  delectations 
became  an  inquisition  that  condemned  without 
defence  and  tortured  without  mercy.  His  phil 
osophy  of  life,  moreover,  was  too  ruthless  and 
unflinching  to  serve  as  buoyancy  in  hours  of  de 
pression  that  verged  on  despair.  His  religious 
faith  had  grown  steadily  away  from  orthodoxy 
into  something  that  appeared  neither  to  com 
fort  spiritually  nor  wholly  to  satisfy  intellec 
tually.  He  seems  to  have  left  life  before  dis 
covering  adequate  compensation  for  its  forbid 
ding  aspects, — shadows,  it  may  be  said,  into 
which  his  eyes  saw  quite  clearly.  He  was  not 
romantic  and  had  no  illusions,  in  the  usual 
sense. 

It  was  sheer  strength  of  will  and  a  physique 
too  tenacious  to  be  easily  destroyed  that  sus 
tained  him  throughout.  Who  will  forget  the 


82  In  Remembrance 

quick  level  look  as  one  entered  the  sick-room, 
the  powerful  grip  of  the  emaciated  hand,  the 
conversation  casual  as  if  the  intruder  were  not 
always  waiting  just  without?  His  activities 
other  than  intellectual  had  been  strenuous;  a 
speedy  boxer,  who  could  give  and  take  punish 
ment,  fond  of  skiing,  toboganning,  camping, 
riding  and  sailing.  No  poet  has  ever  expressed 
the  fine  rhythms  of  action  more  intensely,  at  the 
same  time  with  such  appreciation  of  their  aes 
thetic  values.  No  poetry  is  more  masculine, 
more  replete  with  healthful  verve  and  resilient 
elan.  It  is  this  sense  of  a  capacity  for  action 
that  gives  vitality  not  only  to  his  dramatic 
pieces,  but  even  to  the  poems  of  delicate  de 
scription  and  contemplation.  They  are  terse, 
sinewy  and  animate  with  that  movement  whose 
abounding  pulsation  he  felt  within  himself.  He 
noted  them  in  language  of  precise  discrimina 
tion,  and  with  a  realization  of  balance  and 
reserve  that  guided  a  natural  exuberance 
to  the  Hellenic  quality  of  simple,  appropriate 
form. 

If,  during  health,  one  could  divine  by  the 
easy,  graceful,  assured  carriage  of  Paul's  well- 
built  figure  his  athletic  interests,  there  was  de 
termination  to  match,  perceptible  in  the  strong, 


Paul  Mariett  83 


resolute  head,  the  militant  chin  that  terminated 
the  lean,  firmly  modelled  face,  the  thin,  sensi 
tive,  tightly-drawn  lips  whose  smile  was  often 
a  little  grim  rather  than  merely  amiable.  The 
dark  eyebrows  slanting  acutely  toward  a  point 
of  contingency  above  the  strongly-ridged  nose, 
aided  the  mobility  of  his  face  in  its  modula 
tions,  lending  an  air  now  of  quizzical  diablerie, 
or  ironical  directness,  01  inscrutable,  penetrat 
ing  intentness,  or  again  of  mild,  humorous 
friendliness;  and  they  served  as  fitting  base  to 
the  open,  thoughtful  forehead  that  curved  up 
proudly  to  meet  the  crest  of  black  hair,  waving 
not  too  riotously. 

But  it  was  the  eyes  that  marked  him  among 
his  fellows  as  critic  and  poet.  Sometimes 
keenly  practical  and  absorbed  in  the  things  im 
mediately  before  him,  they  could  be,  and  were, 
habitually  dreamy,  distantly  contemplative.  He 
was  widely  respected  for  the  soundness  of  his 
judgment,  for  he  perceived,  occasionally  with 
some  prejudice,  but  oftener  with  great  intuitive 
justice  of  insight,  the  relations  of  life  and  of 
art.  He  was  not  deceived  by  appearances.  He 
hated  pretentiousness,  sententious  moralizing, 
academic  arrogance  and  crass  stupidity,  and  if 
his  criticisms  (they  were  not  judgments)  ap- 


84  In  Remembrance 

peared  severe  even  to  acridness  at  times,  it  was 
because  he  refused  to  be  conciliated  or  wheedled 
into  compromise.  He  felt  with  almost  bitter 
keenness  the  cleft  between  his  own  and  the  pre 
ceding  generation,  the  destruction  of  traditional 
beliefs  and  usages,  the  advent  of  new,  more  un 
hampered  and  more  exacting  criterions  of  con 
duct.  That  he  was  thoroughly  in  sympathy 
with  the  humanitarian  movement  of  to-day  is 
evident  in  that  splendid  warning  and  prophecy, 
The  Two  Feasts.  His  work,  when  occasion  de 
mands,  is  bold  and  frank,  chastened,  however, 
by  his  omnipresent  respect  for  form  and  fitting 
beauty.  Yet  with  a  mind  progressive  and  fer 
tile  for  the  future,  he  respected  all  sincerity, 
though  it  might  seem  outworn.  He  had  noth 
ing  of  the  heedless  cruelty  of  insurgent  youth, 
nor  was  he  a  blatant  propagandist.  He  real 
ized  the  pathos  of  creative  evolution  and  the 
poem,  In  the  Temple  of  Azzi-Rep,  utters  the 
sadness  of  deposed  gods  and  deserted  temples. 
To  hold  one's  place  in  the  ungovernable  swirl 
of  new  ideas  and  experiences  is  difficult.  Na 
ture  is  a  merciless  opponent. 

"Harder  and  harder  the  blows  are  hurled 
Known,  where  the  unknown  lay,  close  furled." 


Paul  Marie tt  85 


"Shall  I  be  halt  in  so  glorious  a  race?"  he 
cries. 

He  possessed  that  rare  virtue,  scrupulous  in 
tegrity  of  thought.  He  subjected  all  experi 
ences  and  impressions,  were  it  a  symphony  or  a 
number  of  The  Harvard  Monthly,  to  search 
ing  analysis,  extracting  with  triumphant  pre 
cision  the  fallacies  or  felicities  therein  impli 
cated.  Yet  he  also  knew  the  secret  of  building 
complexly  from  the  simplest  elements,  and  his 
best  lyrics  and  short  stories  witness  that  power. 
He  had,  indeed,  the  impulse  and  energy  for 
labor,  "the  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains"; 
but  he  had  for  complement  the  plenary  wisdom 
of  genius  that  sits  in  judgment  on  its  deeds, 
mindful  of  its  limitations  and  foreseeing  its 
ends.  But  whatever  efficiency  experts  declare, 
no  scrupulousness,  however  imperative,  no  toil, 
however  prolonged,  not  even  the  most  deter 
mined  will  can  create  greatly  without  perfec 
tion  of  the  instrument,  without  inherent  sources 
of  inspiration. 

Underneath  a  personality  somewhat  austere, 
in  a  New  England  way,  there  was  something 
warm,  bright,  vivid  and  flaming,  come  down  to 
him  from  his  French  Canadian  ancestry,  per 
haps.  His  character  was  witness  to  that  Mar- 


86  In  Remembrance 

riage  of  Heaven  and  Hell,  of  which  Blake 
speaks,  the  union  of  passion  and  intellect, 
power  and  reflection,  delight  in  experience  and 
control  of  experience,  and  as  neither  predom 
inated  he  seemed  to  have  no  weakness  to  call 
vice.  If  he  suffered  from  the  green  morbidity 
of  his  age,  it  was  well  concealed.  That  par 
donable  causticity  was  as  the  bracing  tang  of 
those  hills  (the  Berkshires,  for  which  he  had  a 
profound  love),  and  whose  "humble  eremite" 
he  was,  on  many  expeditions.  He  craved  color, 
particularly  scarlet;  but  an  artist's  appreciation 
of  the  pictorial  led  him  to  fix  limits  to  profusion 
and  saved  him  from  the  bizarre.  One  of  his 
last  interests  was  in  the  bindings  of  his  books. 
The  selection  of  proper  colors  and  leathers  was 
a  real  delight,  and  their  return  from  the  bindery 
an  occasion  for  eulogizing.  An  aptitude  for 
sound,  color  and  mobile  rhythms  led  him  to 
constant  experiments,  curious,  interesting,  near 
ly  always  successful  and  beautiful  in  effect.  He 
accomplished  feats  unknown  to  the  English  lan 
guage,  and  so  has  made  permanent  additions 
to  our  literature. 

Paul  Mariett  felt  the  enthusiasm  of  discov 
ery.  He  felt  that  existence  was  unsparing.  He 
endeavored  to  extract  the  intrinsic  from  the  ac- 


Paul  Marie tt  87 


cidental  in  love  and  beauty,  in  life  and  death. 
With  all  his  joyous  virility  there  runs  through 
his  work,  almost  from  the  beginning,  an  im 
pending  melancholy,  that  is  neither  the  imma 
ture  cheerlessness  of  sceptical  youth  nor  the  un 
realizable  unreality  of  a  dreamer,  but  some 
thing  unaccountably  sinister,  and  premonitory, 
a  quality  that  pervades  his  most  powerful  and 
poignant  lyrics,  flashing  out  finally,  nakedly 
mystical,  in  the  poem,  The  Grateful  Dead. 
Concerning  this  side  of  his  character,  of  which 
he  spoke  rarely,  and  that  cursively,  little  is  to 
be  said,  much  to  be  left  to  the  "eternal  imag 
ination." 

When  every  ordinary  channel  of  interest  had 
been  closed  to  him,  one  by  one,  there  remained 
primary  affections  supplying  an  almost  ex 
hausted  stamina.  He  had  to  run  the  intermin 
able  gauntlet  of  the  moments  and  endure  a 
nightmare  without  explication.  If  he  prayed 
for  deliverance,  he  continued  until  the  last  to 
express  hope,  but  with  a  kind  of  critical  delib 
eration,  as  if  not  urging  too  much  of  nature. 
His  few  remaining  social  interests  seemed  triv 
ial,  matters  of  food  and  the  noting  of  the  in 
evitable  course  of  the  malady.  At  last  "the 
depths  came  to  look  into  him"  and  his  aspect 


2  or.  co 


88  In  Remembrance 

was  of  gaunt,  strained  unearthliness,  the  pallid 
splendor  of  approaching  death.  Covered  by 
flowers,  later,  all  traces  of  the  struggle  had  van 
ished,  and  his  face  seemed  pure  marble,  a  mask 
of  calm,  imperturbable  strength. 

GEORGE  W.  CRONYN 


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